Who wants to live forever?
by Banashee
Summary: Translation to my own, originally german speaking fanfiction. POST-REICHENBACH. Sherlock jumped, and John is falling more and more into his depression. But what about all the rumors, going on in the news? And will John find out, that Sherlock's alive..? (Slash, JOHNLOCK)


Hey guys, this is my frist fanfiction for BBC Sherlock.

It's originally written by me in german, this is my translation to it. You can read the german version on fanfiktion . de with the same trile and the same username ("Who wants to live forever" by Banashee)

Warnings: Sad, Slash.

Pair: Johnlock

Like a child, I was sitting on the ground, while throwing a little bouncy ball against the wall in front of me, catched it, threw it again. Trowing, waitig, catching. Over and over agian. A monotone movement, which allowed me to almost fall into a kind of trance, so that I could think.

Ich had to do something – a plan, but John shouldn't notice.

Throwing. Waiting. Catching. Monotony.

Now I held the ball still in my hand, and moved on my feet.

I needed Molly.

„Sherlock!" John came in, grabbed the door open much heavier than needed, looked around, and then saw me, sitting on the ground. Ich looked at him expectantly.

„Mrs. Hudson got shot, I just got the call. We have to go!"

Let part one of the plan begin. But I didn't looked John in the eye, when I answered him.

„You go. I can't, I'm busy."

„You're _what_?"John glanced at me, shocked and angrily. „Maybe she's _dying_, Sherlock, and you're _busy_?! Doesn't she mean anything to you?"

Consternation. Disappointment. Anger. Fear. Disbelief. All these emotions were showing in my friends face, and I'd loved, if I could have told him the truth.

But I coundn't. To protect him, I needed to lie to him. So I stayed quiet.

John sadly shook his head.

"You machine!" With these words, and one more disappointed look at me, John turned around and left the room.

Part one of the plan – done. Time for part two.

I still looked at the door for a moment, where John has been standing a few seconds ago.

Then, I fiddled my mobile phone out of my jacket's pocket, and started to type a text message.

As I appeared on the flat roof of the St. Bart's Hospital, I saw Moriaty already sitting there. Not to say, I heard his ridiculous ringtone first, even before I even stepped on the roof.

At the same time, I took a look on my watch.

Now, or every moment, John would arrive Baker Street, bursting into 221B, just to find Mrs Hudson, perfectly well and alive.

From this moment on, he would need one, maybe two seconds to realize, that the call was just a trick, to get him away from me. 'And it's not the only lie!' a voice in my head cried, a voice, which was, after all, my conscience , and it spoke to me since not long ago – that it had John's voice after all, was a thing that I didn't considered as a chance.

John would arrive home, then realizing, that he was taken away from me, and then go back, as fast as he could.

Which meant, I had a few minutes of time.

Part three.

I was holding my mobile phone tightly in my hand, behind my back. Moriaty was talking, talking and talking. He loved to listen to himself. He enjoyed even more, because I acted like I was stupid.

He began, to explain all of his big, brilliant plan to me, not knowing, or ignoring, that I held my mobile phone all the time.

The weakness of the mental one. He was too self-opinionated, to look at the smaller things.

Voice recording? What for? Sherlock Holmes was stupid, right? _An ordinary human being_.

This succsess, that was he was so sure about for himself, nebulized his mind.

I acted, like I was far behind Moriaty – but in fact, I was one step in front of him.

One word gave the other, but then, suddenly – silence – a loud bang, Moriaty fell to the ground, warm blood and brain splinters splattering into my face.

I stumbled. I closed my eyes, pressed my lids tightly, then opened them again.

Part three was finished – Moriaty was dead. Now, it was my turn – to save the three only people, who had ever meant something to me.

And first of all, the one of them, whom I loved more than my own life.

My toecaps sticked out over the edge of the roof, right into the air.

I breathed in, and I breathed out, the most natural thing in the world, but still- I felt.

I felt so much, felt more than I probably ever did.

I glanced down, suddenly saw several people walking past, down on the pavement, seeming to disappear in the grey streets of London. But nobody realized, that they all turned around at some point, going back and forth, slowly or in hurry, covering in normality.

One street away, I was able to recognize a cab.

I gulped, then took my mobile phone again – I needed to make a call.

For a moment, I closed my eyes. "Forgive me, John."

And it was him, whom I called.

"Sherlock? You okay?" I heard the doctor's panicked voice after only one ring. At the same time, I saw him getting out of the same cab, which I had seen earlier.

John was running, and he almost reached the corner. "Stay where you are, John! Look up to me. On the roof."

From up here I saw the small, familiar stature looking around, and then finding me up on the roof – directly on the edge.

"No..." I heared Johns whisper of horror, and saw him run again, right in my direction.

"Get back there! Get back John, stay where you are." My voice dind't even sounded like my own. "Please." I added, and John actually walked back, to where he just came from.

"Sherlock, wha- whats going on?" I heared his voice shaking.

"I owe you an apology. Look at me." He did. "I'm sorry, John. I can't come down to you, so I have to do it like this..." Even from my place here I could tell, how the soft blue eyes of John's widened from relive, and from his voice, which couldn't do more than a broken "No- Sherlock, what-" that he was right before breaking, himself.

The brave, strong man, the soldier, the army doctor – my best friend, who has gone through so much with me, without blinking an eye- he was right before breaking, and it was my fault.

Almost without even noticing, I reached out my hand, as if I wanted to grab John's.

"I'm sorry, John. I am a fake. What the newspapers say- it's all true."

At this point, even my own voice began shaking, and I lost control about myself. My eyes were filled with tears, and soon they were running down my face.

"I invented Moriaty." I looked back, at the body behind me, at the puddle of blood, which was slowly spreading under his head.

"Tell Mrs. Hudson. Tell Molly, and Lestrade, tell everyone, who will listen. The newspapers- they're right."

My vision blurred, and I closed my eyes again, felt the warm tears, slowly running down my cheeks. I didn't care about it, since it was clear, that I couldn't do anything to change it now.

I was lying. I was lying to John, my John, who I was never lying to – since now.

I've always told him the truth, no matter how hard, I've always been honest with him. He knew, and he appreciated it.

"Sherlock..." It was not more than a whisper. "No... No, Sherlock, No. The first time we met,_ the first time, we ever met_ – you knew everything about me. And about my sister."

"Nobody could be that clever." I looked at John, and saw, how he shook his head. "You could."

Trust. True, blind trust.

"I've done research, John. I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Its just a magic trick."

My voice sounded like I'd had a cold. My emotions ran me down, and I was unable to handle it.

Raised blood pressure, uncontrollable shaking, a lump in the throat – and tears.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it, please."

I needed to gulp. Then, finally, I told John, what I needed to tell him.

"Look at me, John. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please... Can you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phonecall, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

John looked up to me, and then began to run again. "Stop! Get back John, get back... Please... Get back, and look at me."

He didn't want to, but he did. He looked at me again. "Sherlock, please. Don't."

I closed my eyes.

"Goodbye, John."

"No... No! Sherlock!" I hung up the phone, and threw it behind me – Molly would get it, when- when it was over.

I bended my arms, and even without the phone, I could hear John, crying my name, but I took a step forward.

Without even seeing, I knew, that from the lower building in front of me, which was taking a part of John's view away, a prepared body was pushed down to the ground. A body, which now looked like me.

Seconds later, I felt my soft landing on a truck, full of plastic bags.

Plan completely accomplished.

Next thing I heared, was my own sobbing.

When could a man run the chance to see his own funeral?

I was one of those, who could do so. My coffin – or, better to say, the coffin with the other body, was taken down into the earth, and the only ones who were there, were John, and dear Mrs Hudson.

Earlier, I've had found out, that Lestrade would have come, too. But the conditions of the new's headlines, compared with his position in his job didn't allow so.

My brother Mycroft wasn't here, either- but he had other reasons.

The procession didn't took long, and soon, John and Mrs Hudson stood there all by themselves.

Both were looking at the shiny polished tombstone, as if it could answer all their questions, but it stayed quiet- just like me, who was hidden behind a few bushes.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson left John alone there. She laid her hand softly on his shoulder, and then left respectfully.

For a moment, John didn't move, but then, he began to speak.

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there."

John talked very silent, but it was so quiet here on the graveard, that the wind was blowing his voice over to me.

John had been standing still there, military posture, on the grave of an fellow – a scenario, which should have been familiar to him, caused by his job.

But this... Was different, from everything else.

John looked very small, even smaller, than he usually was, and he looked lost.

He said nothing for a while, but then he stepped forward, placing a hand on my tombstone. It was a soft, loving touch.

„But... I was so alone and I owe you so much." Again, this small moment of silence. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..."

The words faded away in the wind, and I could see, how John lost his posture, and let himself completely fall, in this moment, where he felt like nobody was there to watch him.

He seemed to collapse in himself, covered his face in his hands, and couldn't help himself, as he started to cry.

Not long ago, I was sure that I, like they told me, didn't had a heart. But how, if I could feel it breaking right in my chest now?

For a few minutes, John allowed himself these moments of greif, then he softly touched my name on the stone, got up on his feet, and went back to his place, where he drawn up himself. Careful, to stay in posture, after his breakdown.

One more time, he glanced on my grave, saluted, and went away, without looking back.

When I took place next to Mrs Hudson in the cab, I didn't say a word. I sat completely quiet, because I didn't know, how I'd react, if I opened my mouth to talk.

"John? Are you alright?" asked Mrs Hudson, and again, I could feel her hand, lightly on my shoulder.

I nodded, looked at her for a moment, and tried to smile.

The old lady, who was now close to me, replied -I've did my best to remove the marks of it, but I was sure, that she could see, that I've had been crying. Actually, she didn't only see, she knew.

Bacause she knew, what Sherlock meant to me, and still did – even if I never told anyone, let alone, Sherlock himself.

I stayed quiet, all way long, and Mrs Hudson joined me. When we arrived Baker Street, she just said to me "You know where to find me, if you'll be needing me." and I nodded thankfully.

What a wonderful woman – I wished, that I could be strong for her, too, but I didn't even fully managed that for mysef.

Opening the apartment door, entering all alone, knowing, that I'd stay alone, was the hardest thing, I could imagine. But still I did – because I had nowhere else to go.

Everything still looked the same, the messy mix of furnitures, the carpet floor, and the colorful ornament wallpapers- the wall, which happened to feel Sherlock being bored, where shot holes crossed the happy smiley, which Sherlock had spray-painted there times before.

Stupid thing, grinned at me happily, so that I felt the need, to shoot it, too – and better shoot myself afterward s, too.

The only thing which stopped me from this, was the thought of poor old Mrs Hudson, who had to clean my mess then- and I just didn't had the heart to do this to her.

I looked around, felt the lump in my throat. For a moment, I needed to close my eyes, calming my breath- and again, I couldn't hold back my tears. Id didn't matter, I was all alone here, and no one could see me.

With a few steps, I crossed the sitting room, went into my bedroom, and threw myself onto the bed, all dressed and with my shoes still on. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, at all.

Only the pillows choked my scream of despair, and the next, as well. No one was there to hear me I was alone.

Not as alone, as I had been, before I've met Sherlock. Now, since I've lost him, the person, that I loved more than anything else, I was abandoned like never before.

In the following weeks, I only left the flat to do the shopping. Rest of the time, I stayed there, hiding in bed, talked to nobody, and stared at my gun, which was placed on my nightstand. It seemed to whisper to me, the gun, and it sounded more and more seductive to me.

If I even managed to sleep, I soon woke up from one of my nightmares, always bathed in perspiration, shaking, sometimes screaming, sometimes with silent tears.

Everytime, I tried to ignore my guns whisper, but still- my days were all the same. I crawled away in the flat, where everything reminded me so much of Sherlock, since everything here seemed to keep a little part of him.

I still had the feeling, Sherlock would come in here, soon, or that he still lay on the sofa, talking to me, without even noticing, that I'd left the room.

I banked on it, every second, but still knowing, that this would never happen again.

Sherlock was gone- without me.

I ignored the doorbell, and I ignored phonecalls. 'Just leave me alone here' I thought.

Even Mrs Hudson got often dismissed, but not everytime – I didn't had the heart for it.

On a grey and misty monday morning, Mrs Hudson knocked my door, while I was sitting in my armchair, staring holes in last week's newspaper. I didn't catch a word, although I've had it in my hands, over and over again.

"It's unlocked, Mrs Hudson." I called, my voice quiet and broken, since I hadn't used it for so long.

The door went open, and Mrs Hudson entered, holding a small package in her hands.

"John, my dear, a young lady was there, a minute ago. Molly. She asked me to hand you this packet..." She reached it to me, and I accepted it, surprised. "Thanks."

Mrs Hudson looked at me, for a moment. Then she continued: "I know, you don't want to talk to anybody, and I know, you don't want to see anybody. I understand that- I really do. But John... It won't get any better, if you shut yourself from everybody. I know,it's hard... Maybe even harder for you, than for anybody else."

She said nothing for a moment, and I just looked at her.

She knew- she always knew, what Sherlock had meant to me. And still did.

"But John." She said softly, "You're not alone, even if it feels like that."

I wasn't able to say a thing, even if I had the words.

"I'm worried about you, John. Molly is worried. And I bet you, even Mycroft would have tried to call you, if he had such things as time or manners."

That last part even made me almost smile. Thankfully, I glanced at the old Lady, she smiled, placed her hands on mine for a second or two, and then left.

When I was all alone again, the mysterious packet took all my attention. Whatever it was, but at least for a moment, my thoughts were distracted from the grief, that I had.

I ripped off the paper, and took out – a mobile phone. To me, a very familiar mobile phone, even though it wasn't mine. It was Sherlock's.

And again, I felt something braking inside me. I put it aside, and wiped my eyes, while I had them closed.

It hurt,to be reminded about my late friend like that. But still, one part of me, the part which was able to think logically, which has been asked more and more by sherlock, knew, that there had to be a important reason, why Molly had sent it to me.

So I opened my eyes again, grabbed the packet, and took a closer look at it.

There was the phone, of course, but there also was a note, which was placed under the mobilephone.

I read it, and recognized Molly's handwriting.

"_John, that was lying on the roof of St. Barts Hospital, after Sherlock jumped._

_It is his phone, and I'm sure, you'd like to have it._

_If you need someone to talk – you know, where to find me._

_Wishing you well, _

_Molly._

_P.S. Take a look at the phone, the last voice record."_

For a moment, I just stared at these words, then I picked up the phone again.

It was turned off, but I knew it's code. I knew this one, and several other of Sherlock's private codes, as well as he has known mine. It was no big deal between us, because we had trusted each other, with our lifes.

Anyways, I turned on the phone, and typed in it's code.

The home screen appeared, and the menu opened up, and I was able to find the folder with the voice records very quick. But I hesitated for a moment- the record was made on Sherlock's death day. The day, that he jumped.

I finally decided, to listen to the record. It was important- I just knew.

But still, it was very hard for me. "Come on, do it." I told myself, and then, I pressed "play".

The record was long. It showed the talk between Sherlock and Moriaty- that mental one spilled everything out, every little detail of his big, brilliant plan. He was sure about himself, completely sure.

He threatened Sherlock; he should kill himself, or Moriaty would kill three other people - Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade – and me.

Everything to protect us. Sherlock gave his own life for that reason, and I knew now, that the only lie, he had ever told me, was the one, which the newspapers had spread.

I listened to the record, until the very end, then I placed the phone aside, and took a deep breath.

Then I took my time, to vent my emotions. I took my time, and I took much of it. Because now I knew, what I had to do.

When I was sitting in the cab, I watched my own reflection in the window. Even since I had taken a shower before, I looked pretty miserable. Pale in the face, lost several pounds, and a shave, maybe even the visiting of a hairdresser were needed.

But I didn't care about how I looked, even if it wasn't the best thing to do, considering where I was going to go.

After I had knocked, I entered the room. The man in the armchair looked up in suprise, as soon as he saw me.

"John! You could have called me before coming, you know." Discreet, as always, wasn't he, Mycroft.

I nodded lenient to Mycroft Holmes, and then took a seat without asking him.

"You may forgive me, Mycroft, but it's a matter of hurry." He smiled, but it just looked as if he had a tooth ace. "Of course. You may forgive me that reference, but you look tremendous." Sensitive, like always. „Thanks very much." I replied ironically, and before Mycroft was able to say one more thing, I placed Sherlock's phone on the coffee table between us. Mycroft looked at me, wondering.

So I explained to him in a few words, what has happened this morning, and what was the matter with the voice record.

"Listen to it. It's the very last record."

Mycroft did, without talking or anything else. Undoubtedly, I've had surprised him. And I knew, we both were remembering, that I gave him hell when we last met, 'cause he gave Moriaty informations about Sherlock, unknowing, what it caused in the end- his own brothers death.

I would have loved to punch him in the face in that moment, but I didn't. But actually, Mycroft knew perfectly well, that this could still happen to him.

As well as he knew, that I was able to lose all my respect for everything and everyone, if needed.

Normally, I was very nice, and very friendly, was all respectfully. Just like I've had learnt it , and just like I continued it in my time in the army. But sometimes, I was able to forget all these things, at once. And all I could do, was warning people about this fact.

"So, what are you going to do, then?"Mycroft asked, and I looked at him. "You and I, we will be restoring Sherlock's good name. We will prove the truth." I grabbed the phone on the table. "And this is, what we'll start with. I'll bring this to the police, and then I'll be needing you. We will visit a lady namend Kitty Riley.."

It was a good feeling, to have something to do. Indeed, I still woke up every night, shaking and in tears, but at least, I felt needable in the daytime.

The pain I've been feeling all the time didn't disappear, but for a little time, I was able to handle it.

On the same day, after I had talked to Mycroft, I went to Lestrade, to bring him the phone.

He was surprised to see me, but he had been happy to see me, too. He didn't say much, but I knew, he would have liked to say several things – the fact, he was in service, didn't allow him to do so.

But still, I understood, and I gave him a sign, to make it clear. Then I handed Sherlock's phone to him, and began to explain, what was the matter, and how it came to me, just today.

Before listening the voice record, Lestrade called his team in – Anderson and Donovan both looked at me for a moment, obviously unsure, what to say, or what to do to me. I sure still looked horrible, but I managed to glance at both of them with a look,cold as ice, all the time, while the record was playing. After it had ended, nobody said a word.

"I told you before, Sherlock is not a liar. You didn't know him, not a single bit, according to how you judged him." The Agents stayed quiet, but I didn't looked long enough, to read in their looks.

I turned to Lestrade, a bit more softly. "But you. You knew him, even longer than I did."

Lestrade nodded, slowly, and then looked at me – all I could find in his face, was the pure truth, and a rush of sorry. "Yeah, I knew him longer. But better? I don't think so. You knew him best, John. Well, what I mean to say... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

He said nothing for a moment, and then added: "We will take care of this."

What happened the next days, should better stay a secret. But let me tell this much:

One evening, Mycroft and I went to Miss Riley's flat. She wasn't there already, so Mycroft an I just placed ourselves and waited, in her dark sitting room.

He called it burglary, I called it necessary. But he agreed to help me - after all, it was about his late brother.

And even in Mycroft, I assumed such a thing like a heart – deep down, inside him- somewhere.

So we were waiting for kitty, but not too long. When she came in, of course she recognized me, and went all pale. "What do you want?"

"The truth, Miss Riley. You know the truth, don't you?" The young woman looked at us, but said nothing.

This night was going to be very long, but it's more than enough to know, that we talked to her- and tried to make her talk. At first, she didn't, but Mycroft had his methods, to change that.

After all, she agreed, to face the police, agred, to tell them what she did and what she knew.

"You'll be going alone there. You won't mention this conversation here to anybody. You understand me, Miss Riley?"

She nodded. "Yes, I do."

The plan worked – Kitty Riley faced to police, and got arrested, for her help to commit crimes.

Of course, the newspapers went mad.

"Moritay real? Sherlock Holmes, not a liar?"

This was the headline of the first article after that, and many others followed. The truth got public, and people had a thing, to gossip about.

Some of the reporters treid to get an interview with me – but I gave them all the fluff.

The truth was out there, and people knew, hell, they even believed it- finally.

And yes, I was proud of myself, for doing this, with Mycrofts help.

He hasn't been any more sympathetic to me since, but it was good, to have him on your won side. After all, he was kind of the british government.

But now, since this one important thing was done, I happened to fall in my inner emptiness again.

No daily routine. Too many thoughts, too much longing for the man, who hadn't stepped into this flat for so long- and never would again.

One evening – all these things were back more than a half year now – I managed to get myself up a little bit. This day, I've had an attack of bravery, and finally started to clean out a few things in Sherlock's old desk, which I hadn't touched since was gone.

It wasn't easy at all for me, and I almost gave up, more than once. But I told myself to continue.

In this time,I found an old folder, which belonged neither me nor Sherlock. It was Mycroft's.

It contained some old papers from an case, which was a few years back. I sure wasn't allowed to throw it away, but I saw no need to keep it, either.

So I got myself up, and left the flat again.

Before I called to get myself a cab, I hardly managed to take a shower. A shave was needed too, but I didn't do it.

On the way, while sitting in the cab, I remembered, that I missed to call Mycroft, to inform him about my visit.

Well... He would be there, anyways, I thought. And if not, then I still would have found the strength to get out of the flat. Go out, where people were. After all, it was a progress.

After a few minutes, I was there, paid for the cab, and then left.

The huge, noble looking halls were almost familiar to me. I crossed them without a word, until I reached a double-door, where I knocked before entering.

I came in, and saw Mycroft,but he wasn't alone here. My jaw dropped, and the folder which I was holding in my arms, dropped on the floor.

"John! You really should have called me before..." Mycroft greeted me, looking shocked. Suprised.

He took a quick look at the man next to him, and I finally woke up from my state of shock, while I was still staring at him.

He looked just as always – a black coat, the dark curls, which framed his plae face- the face, which was so well acquainted to me, just as the pair of green-blue eyes, which used to survey me, just like they did now.

"Sherlock, what- you- you're alive?!" He nodded. "Appearantly, yes John."

Neutral. Not a sign of emotion was noticeable. But for me, every single emotion seemed to come over me.

"And you don't think, it's even possible for you to just TELL ME A WORD?! AND YOU!" I turned to Mycroft, who already was very decent on his way to the door, "YOU KNEW, AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME ANYTHING? NOT A SINGLE HINT, THAT SHERLOCK'S ALIVE?!"

"Of course I knew, my brother's alive. He had some help of mine, live in disguise after his 'death'. But" and he opened the door and slipped through it, just looking back for a second, "That's a thing you two can talk about for yourselves now, right? Have a nice evening!"

Said it, and was gone.

Now Sherlock crossed the room with a few steps, and then prudently closed the door. After that,he finally looked at me. The eyes, which used to look at me, survey me, in such an familiar way. These eyes, that I sometimes was able to read like a book, the eyes, which I loved so much...

"John, listen to me. I'm sorry." He stepped close to me, but I pushed him away.

Sherlock was almost a full head taller than I was, but still, I managed to punch him against the wall which was facing us, without a big effort.

He didn't do anything, and he allowed me, to push him again- my heart wanted all but this, and still- I pushed him, and I even punched him in the face, several times, and he didn't even do a thing. I was so full of anger and full of sorrow, while I was shouting at him.

"CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINGE, HOW I FELT? HOW I STILL FEEL, TO THIS DAY? WHEN I WOKE UP TO AN EMPTY FLAT, BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T THERE? I had nightmares, Sherlock, every night, I woke up from it. I missed you, I fucking missed you, every goddamn day!"

There was so much more, what I wanted to tell him, so much more, what I wanted to shout at him, but I couldn't.

All that came out of my mouth, was a painful sob, and the next moment, my knees collapsed, and I waited for my fall. But it didn't happen. Instead, I felt something soft and warm wrapping around me. I inhaled the familiar smell, which I'd recognize out of thousands, because I used to smell it so often, times back, when Sherlock was near me, for example, when he leaned over me, while I was writing my blog, to read it over my shoulder.

I felt the soft curls,tickling my cheek, and I felt the detectives long arms, which wrapped around me, and pulled me close.

Sherlock hugged me, like he never did before, even if he wasn't used to it. He was a little tensed up, but still,he held me in his arms, while I was crying my eyes out.

He didn't care, that I pushed him, he didn't care, that I even hit him. It didn't mattered to him.

For a long time, we stayed like that. My anger was now completely gone, was gone for a huge grief, which handed me down.

All the sadness, that I had with me all this time, slowly unloaded, and Sherlock was just there for me.

Behind the windows, the sun was down for long, and I could feels, how Sherlock was less tensed up than before. He was still holding me, and I got the feeling, that he even felt more comfortable with it.

Then, he began to speak again.

"John, I know, I've hurt you. And for that,I'm more sorry, than I can tell, or even show you. You now know, I needed to do it for your protection."

"I know." I replied, silently. "But still, you could have told me. That you're alive, I mean."

For a moment, I hesitated to ask, but it did it. "Sherlock... What if I hadn't come here today? Would you have never told me, you're alive?"

Sherlock released me a little, but still stayed near me. He looked me in the eyes, and in his, I could see that it wasn't easy for him at all. His eyes looked all honest, but after all, they gave me a very sad look.

"No, John. I wouldn't. I would have told you- later. I'd never leave you all alone, believe me."

I nodded slightly. "Okay then."

Sherlock looked at me for one more moment. Then, he reached out his hand, and softly sweeped over the fuzz of beard on my cheek.

"You look horrible, John." he said, directly and honest as always, but this time, a singe tear rolled down on his face, and I wiped it away with my own hand.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock."

The truth was, we were both looking horrible. But it didn't matter at all.

Not, after our lips finally met.

THE END


End file.
